


They Come at the 11th Hour (The Legend of the Silent Dance Party)

by Katzencreme



Category: Carleton College - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Based on a True Story, Carleton College, College, Creepypasta, Gen, Horror, POV Outsider, Silent Dance Party, Surreal, The Libe (Carleton College), Urban Legends, a potential magnus archives case that is never solved ever, and now the weather, quirky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:47:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27480685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katzencreme/pseuds/Katzencreme
Summary: Legend says a series of bizarre events occur bi-annually at Carleton College. Strange beings roam the campus that nobody understands and nobody knows exist until the rare moments they reveal themselves. These beings are ancient and connected together by a hive mind powered by sound. What they truly want is a mystery, but their appearance is sparked by an event that all of the students regard with dread. What is the purpose of this phenomenon?Props to my dad for proofreading/editing this.
Kudos: 3





	They Come at the 11th Hour (The Legend of the Silent Dance Party)

**Author's Note:**

> My contribution to the Benton House Carleton fanfic project

They come at an hour to midnight. You don’t hear their arrival, but then again you’d never be able to because they’re deathly silent. No sounds exist that would betray their presence until they’re already surrounding you. Of course, the upside is that they don’t hear you either, for the sound cancelling devices they wear eliminate all noise outside of a constant, thrumming hum. The sound of it connects them into a vast hive mind. This collective consciousness cannot be escaped or broken. To do either of these would mean confusion, irritation, and identity loss. A terrible fate indeed.  
They begin their descent on campus by gathering in the bowels of the library where silence reigns unbroken. Before the hum begins, they cluster against the walls and stare each other down with mutual anticipation. They’ve chosen tonight because they’re drawn to suffering like mosquitos to fresh blood. It calls out to them. If you look closely, you’ll catch a glint of understanding shining in their eyes, for they’re suffering too. The same whirling vortex of numbers, facts and diagrams in the students’ minds thrashes about in their own heads. The difference is in the after effects. Whereas ordinary people emerge exhausted and bleary-eyed from their suffering, these beings draw energy from it by merging it with music. And oh, they know that the next three days will provide a special suffering that promises energy in boundless amounts.The students who reside here will provide the fuel. The hours these students spend squinting at sheets of paper while desperately pouring this swirling monstrum of thoughts into pen and ink create the purest energy source. Those in the hive mind also undergo this trial. In fact, they’ve known the horror of these tests for so long that they’ve invented a special name for this brand of suffering. An ancient term feared by all. 

Finals.

While going about your regular college business, you might have seen these beings converging on the library with casual strides, or perhaps a few were sprinting in a haste to be punctual. Even arriving a minute late dooms them to losing their synchronization with the others. You most likely won’t notice any difference between them and regular people. Your disadvantage lies in the fact that they know how to blend in. They’ve been walking these sidewalks for months and know things that you don’t. Any face you pass on campus could be one of them. There’s no way to be certain until you see them pass by you at the fabled hour.

Trust no one. 

Ten seconds before 11:00 pm marks the moment when the figures in the library raise their eyes to gaze expectantly at their leader, who stands elevated above the throng. While their mouths slowly count down the seconds, their fingers hover over the play buttons of their devices and tremble slightly in eagerness. As the clock strikes 11, all of these fingers belonging to dozens of individuals press down in perfect synchronization.

The hum starts. They are One now. 

The formerly stationary mass of beings all at once begins to move. Dozens of feet tap in hypnotic patterns while arms swish through the air in wild lines. Their heads bob to melodies that provide the hum’s substance. Each fresh melody sets the speed with which the throng moves onwards towards their goal. Their leader guides them through the library stacks as they sway and twist their way forwards in a close line. Every few feet, figures fan out to the sides, inevitably returning to their brethren in the center. The movements of each follower adjust instantly and effortlessly to each alteration in tempo. The music ensures that each listener instinctively knows what there is to be done.

The college students who sit hunched over books in the far depths of the library will be the first to meet the parade head on. Oh, but don’t worry, the children of the hum don’t mean any harm. In fact, they are forbidden by sacred law to disturb the nightly studies of the students who gather there. If these students were to look up at the critical time, they would find themselves encircled by a great mass of dancers. They will be startled of course, as the dancers appear without warning and flood the open spaces with their physical forms. What they will truly find unsettling though is the stifling silence. Without a direct connection to the hum, the students will not hear the music. They will instead be left to baffle over figures that spin and leap to nothing at all. Eventually, the forms of the dancers will recede into the distance, and the students will be left alone to ponder what they have witnessed.

At a signal from the leader, the procession flows to the stairs and spills in a flood onto the next level, surprising the newest students congregated there. Like before, the figures disperse themselves into the space and continue their frenzied dance. A student would later remark that it was like seeing an energetic crowd at a hard rock concert, only when you got close, you didn’t hear a single noise issuing from all those mouths and instruments. If you were the onlooker of that concert, you’d assume that either all of those people were crazy, or slowly admit to yourself with a dawning horror that it was you who didn’t belong. It was you who didn’t hear what everyone else did, and you discovered that you were isolated from some secret that your senses denied you. You’d try to reassure yourself that it had all been a dream, but there would always be voices in the back of your mind that whispered to you the truth of your fractured and irreparable sanity. 

Can you even trust yourself anymore?

The followers of the hum eventually converge on the main floor of the building, a space called first Libe. There’s a marked difference in tone here. Instead of pervading silence, there’s the murmur of chatting voices from students furiously preparing for the dark days to come. When the parade of beings pour from the stairwell like a torrent of violent water, every eye on the floor shifts to stare at them, intrigued by the sudden disruption to their activities. It only takes a few seconds for the students to acknowledge who surrounds them, but they’re unafraid, because this procession is a twice-yearly event and it’s common knowledge why the beings are here. The knowledge of these beings’ existence is simply erased from the student’s minds until the event itself, whereupon the lost memories are restored. Well, actually, they do fear these beings deep down because all humans fear the unknown-the unexplainable-and these beings are wholly incomprehensible to the rational human mind. Their rituals and the power they generate resist explanation, and any attempts to study them too closely only lead to pounding headaches and the disorientation of wondering what knowledge it was that you sought. The students are wise enough to know that it’s better to play the role of bystander, rather than attempt to ask questions that are themselves answerable.

When the crowd reaches the computer labs, they suddenly freeze in place. Their heads tilt to the side as they listen intently to an oncoming message. Their eyes widen in reverence, for it’s the voice of the hum’s true leader, the legendary Stevie P. He speaks to them from his domain in the gigantic house that looms menacingly above campus. The view from the high windows ensures that nothing on campus escapes his notice. He sits upon his throne, sipping warm and delicious broth, while he instructs the group with his psychic link. Under his instructions, the beings begin stretching their tired limbs in unison. Each member of the crowd turns to acknowledge each other with cheerful high-fives and friendly waves. For the first time that night, the group turns and casts warm smiles toward the curious onlookers. The smiles are too wide and too strained. 

Be careful. Returning a smile for too long can pull you under the hum’s control. You’ll never recover your true self again. 

The beings pause again and get down on all fours to scuttle across the floor like crabs. They admit that it’s a strange way to move, but they don’t dare question what Stevie P. commands. When they rise back to their feet, they resume their joyous dancing, only this time their movements are so overpoweringly quirky that the onlookers are forced to look away. This level of quirky behavior is only attainable through centuries of practiced study and focus. These ancient beings have mastered this art long ago. The students envy such skill.

All at once, the beings settle back under the sway of the music as Stevie P. fades away. For now, his role has been fulfilled, though he always watches. 

Always. 

They glide in a procession towards the library front doors and spill out into the night air. With a newfound sense of freedom, they twirl and dash with delight along the cool ground. A few fearless souls throw their arms back into the wind like an anime protagonist. With flawless communication, the beings flow into each major building around the infamous Bald Spot. The students gathered outside of the library walls cannot escape being graced with the silent dancers’ presence. To witness them is inevitable. Some of these students will calmly watch them from their tables. Other students laugh, though the beings care little about the reactions of outsiders. A few students attempt to record the dancing figures, though they will awaken the next day to find their videos have mysteriously vanished overnight. The beings are very thorough about erasing evidence of their existence until the proper time. Attempting to subvert this power will lead to unfortunate consequences. The beings may mean no harm, but they know limitless ways to terrify the human psyche. It’s an experience best avoided. 

The time comes for the beings to file into the Skinner Chapel. The inside is silent, echoing and gloomy as the empty space is filled with movement. Several beings break off from the central group to occupy the upper balconies. Others clamber up onto the raised platform that serves as the podium and stage. Those dancers remaining on the floor disperse across the faded carpet and weave themselves among the rows of chairs with graceful dexterity. 

For a long time the world is just them and the dancing. At last, they’re free from the prying eyes that have followed them on this special night. All of the staring makes them nervous after so many months of hiding. Figures twirl their way with gleeful abandon through song after song among their own company. They rest assured that anyone passing by the chapel would be unable to place the sound of dozens of feet tapping against the ground, no matter how intently someone listened. It’s a special ability of the dancers to mask their true location when it’s deemed preferable. The regular denizens may bear witness to certain stages of the ritual, but it’s forbidden for any humans to view it in its entirety. Places like these are only for the beings themselves to see.

No visible sign of change occurs within the chapel until a familiar tune resounds, causing the dancers to stop in their tracks. With great satisfaction, the beings remove their outer layers of clothing and enjoy the feeling of the cool air that surrounds them. They remain that way for a while and relish in their newfound freedom. At this moment, there are no rules to restrict their expression of being. It reminds them of their purpose. It reminds them of what gives them identity and independence. Even with their connection to the hivemind, each being differs from each other in unique ways, and finds their own way to express themselves to others. What results is a community that shares a common experience, yet thrives on individuality. It’s a community without end, destined to renew itself across generations.

The song ends and it’s time to move on. With patience, they file back down the corridors to the outside. The diffused, pale white glow of the streetlights faintly outline the dancer’s forms in the darkness. The procession only has one final destination before their journey’s end. They form a close group as they race over the soft grass of the Bald Spot, making the most of the large, open space to spin about without interruption. At their speed, the familiar brick facade of the Libe soon materializes into view. The bright lights of the library’s interior and the students revealed within, who are as preoccupied as ever, prove that the Libe continues to function at this late hour. The decision to return to the origin of their ritual is part of the balance that defines the lifespan of these entities. The start becomes the end. A single location serves as the focus point from which the beings interact with humankind. It is where two forms of life, who are intrinsically connected, knowingly come into contact with each other. As long as the building stands, the beings and the students who live here are fated to meet.

The entities push through the Libe’s heavy doors and head straight for the back, where they once heard the orders of the great Stevie P. The students glance up from their work once again to gaze peculiarly at the returning visitors. Instead of spreading outwards, the group coalesces into a large circle at the room’s center. The beings interlock their arms and hands with their neighbors, which effectively seals the space off from the outside. Gathered together, they sway as if hypnotized to a melody played specifically for this moment. This chosen song is the same for each iteration of the ritual. The group pays no attention to the eyes that tirelessly observe them from afar. They’ve fulfilled their purpose for this evening. They’ve traveled together for an entire hour under the hum’s guidance, and with its help, they’ve successfully collected the energy they’ve sought. The collection itself is indiscernible to humans, since the attainment leaves no traces behind. The entities will use it to survive the rapidly approaching finals. The energy that remains will maintain their corporeal forms and create the next hum for the months ahead. They sway in silent appreciation for the work of their brethren in this most important errand. Not once did any of them stray from their duty or the music. The esteemed and honorable Stevie P. is proud and smiles upon them now from his domain. He shall gift them the wonders of warm broth upon their return. 

With a single, ringing, drawn out note, the hum ends. 

The entities drop their arms to their sides. With finality, they turn their backs to the library and retreat into their campus sanctuaries. An invisible wave powered by supernatural hands rolls over the students of Carleton College. In an instant, the students forget the dancing figures that passed among them not so long ago. The memories of the faces the beings wore, the quirkiness of their movements, and the hard truths of the beings’ existence melt from the students’ minds like dripping wax. 

The effect isn’t absolute. The students will always retain the irritating sensation that they’re missing something important, extraordinary, and horrifying all rolled into one. They will never be able to vanquish the feeling that the full truth hides just beyond their reach. And yet, their efforts to recover what they’ve lost are doomed to fail. The beings will hide themselves in the crowd like they have for centuries, until the time comes again to reveal themselves. For now, they patiently wait, moving among their classmates like old friends. 

They will return.


End file.
